


Buffer Overflow

by theCorvid



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:46:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1993857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theCorvid/pseuds/theCorvid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Walrider makes an appearance again, Miles' senses are overwhelmed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buffer Overflow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jfk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jfk/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Alone Aboard The Ark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1724468) by [rfk (jfk)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jfk/pseuds/rfk). 



> This one is dedicated to Chuck, to reward her for the completion of chapter 12 of Alone Aboard the Ark. She's a wonderful inspiration to me to pick up writing again, and I'm very proud of her. Pat on the back, and many thanks to her for giving me permission to write within the wonderful universe she has created. Love ya, Chuck.

Miles remembers nothing coherent at all. He remembers a pain in his gut like his stomach was trying to wrench itself out underneath his ribcage, and he remembers a bright flash of light like the dawn of the universe, and his brain shorting out and senses falling into black. Then there was colour, fuzzy on the human level, but he could see the microscopic grains of stained light like pixels in high definition, colours in shapes he couldn't outline and with movements he couldn't process. As the image gained clarity and purpose, he vaguely remembers fluid movements and masses of numbers that inexplicably made sense to him, and that was the last thing he remembers before waking with what feels like a painless hangover, aware of the transpiring of events but unable to recall them.

He lifted his head and cracked his eyes open. The light slipped into them and seemed to slice right through to the back of his head as a sharp pain, and he couldn't have kept his eyes open if he'd wanted to. He shifted his body and found that he was unable to feel in the way that he remembered, aware of a solid surface beneath him but unable to discern its texture or temperature, like there were too many bits of information for his brain to make sense of all at once, leaving him with a generalised feeling. He groaned loudly, the sound coming back to him as deafening static, and rolled to his side. He couldn't even tell for sure if he'd succeeded, his sense of balance and direction skewed, until he felt the pressure of a hand on his back, and another trying to lift him.

"Miles?" came the static again, just barely distinguishable as a human voice that was not his own. His ears were ringing and the sound was like a knife through the centre of his skull, and he flailed an arm in the general direction of the voice's origin, internally pleading for silence and relief.

There was another skip, then, like waking up from a nap you hadn't planned on taking, and he woke up more conscious and in considerably less pain than before. Seeing light behind his eyelids, he turned his head away from the source of the light before daring to open his eyes again, this time meeting a level of light that was just bearable. It took him two minutes at least to take the baby steps necessary to open them fully, and to discern that he was in his bedroom, laid fully dressed on top of his bed. There was a glass of water and four pills of an unknown variety on the bedside table, placed politely, if such a word can be applied in that context, away from the other miscellaneous objects on the surface, and he only knew one person who would arrange things for him so neatly.

"Park?" he tried, the sound of his own voice grating to him. The response was almost immediate, door opening cautiously and Waylon appearing behind it, face just as cautious, but stepping into the room anyway. He didn't say anything at first, closing the door behind him, and noticing the untouched pills on the table.

"Paracetamol. And ibuprofen," he explained, even though Miles didn't ask.

"What happened?"

Waylon frowned, and limped over to the bed, perching on the edge. "I... I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Miles asked, astounded. Waylon must have more to offer about what happened than Miles did. He must be able to offer _something_.

"I don't know," Waylon repeated with a shrug. His expression was strange, eyes wide like he was on edge, but nothing else on his face indicating discomfort. "I wasn't able to make sense of it."

Miles sighed and shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "Make sense of _what_?" _  
_

There was no reply this time, and when Miles opened his eyes again to look for one, Waylon was staring at him with a level of uncertainty and discomfort he'd only seen a few times before.  _Please don't make me explain,_ it said. A part of Miles - a strong part, at that - wanted to have mercy, but he had to know. It was troubling to him, and under the effect of so much pain and discomfort, he didn't see why he had to suffer for Waylon. He was tired of being in the dark. It only took a few seconds of insistent, apathetic and yet still somehow threatening, eye contact - reminiscent of the look he used to give Waylon in the days just after they first met - for the smaller man to cave. When he spoke, it came out strained, like it was physically painful to push out the words.

"You... the swarm-"

That was all it took. Miles had heard enough. The things he remembered feeling were so difficult to make sense of, but familiar enough. He could put the pieces together. This was enough confirmation for him. His hand came up to stop Waylon's explanation in its tracks. "Okay, okay," he said, probably more rudely than necessary, and raised a shaking hand to his upper lip to check for blood. When it came back dry, he exhaled a breath and looked to the bedside table. "Could you?"

After a short pause, like he hadn't understood what was being asked of him, Waylon stood and nodded. "Sure." He helped Miles into a semi-upright position and handed him the glass and the pills, and sat back down onto the bed, nervously watching him take them. Miles didn't like the behaviour at all. Waylon wasn't a pathetic man, and it wasn't Miles' place to tell him to act more like it, but he wished that he would. He wished that he would stop giving him reasons to feel compelled to reassure him.  _I'm not gonna bite you,_ he wanted to joke, but quickly realised that given what Waylon had just seen, and the things Waylon had no doubt seen in Mount Massive that he hadn't, it would probably not be a joke at all, so he settled on silence instead.

The two of them just sat for a while. Miles closed his eyes and waited for the pills to kick in, and Waylon rested with his elbows on his knees as he tried to find something to say, or to decide if he had to say anything at all. It briefly occurred to him that Miles would like him to leave, but just as quickly he realised that Miles would tell him if that was the case, so he stayed, and his mind wandered to the Walrider. He thought about what Miles told him, about protecting him that night. He thought about the sincerity on Miles' face when he told him, and made a mental note to trust Miles' judgement next time he saw it. He thought about the way Miles had become shrouded in black just hours before, his eyes unnatural and unreflective, and the way he had spoken to Waylon in unintelligible strings of syllables moments before he tore him away from those men in the grimy city alley, to safety. He tried to make sense of it. He couldn't.

A lethargic grunt from Miles startled him out of his own thoughts, and he turned to see Miles looking down at him through barely-open eyelids. He looked exhausted. The adrenaline had worn off, he supposed. "You should rest."

Miles furrowed his eyebrows and swallowed, breathing through his nose. He looked as though he was going to shake his head no, but he didn't, though he kept his eyes open, kept looking at Waylon, searching for something. Then, after a few breaths, he managed, in a soft tone very unlike himself, "Are you okay?"

Waylon didn't know how to respond at first. His gut told him to give a polite yes, but his head told him to be honest. After a moment's thought, he realised the two were one and the same. Unbelievably, he was okay. "Yeah. I'm okay."

Miles closed his eyes, then, seemingly satisfied. It made Waylon's heart skip a little when Miles let him know, in his own small ways, that he cared. He thought it was a little pathetic that it made him so happy, but he took it for what it was. A positive feeling. He wasn't at peace with what happened - he still couldn't fully understand what he saw, or why it happened, and he doubted that Miles would be able to explain it to him. He wasn't, and probably never would be, at peace with the Walrider. But if he was having trouble, he couldn't begin to imagine what it was like for Miles.

A few minutes passed, and Miles' deep, restful breathing gave Waylon the cue to leave, but a hand shot out to grasp his wrist before he could take the first step. "Christ," he breathed, the unexpected touch scaring the breath out of him momentarily. He internally scolded himself for being so jumpy, and turned to look Miles in the eye. His eyes were cracked open again, but his head still lay back lethargically on the pillow.

"Stay," Miles said quietly.

Waylon didn't have to think twice. He sat back down and nodded. "Alright."

Miles didn't let go of his wrist, and the memory of what happened last time he was tending to Miles came back to him suddenly and in vivid colour. Miles was still looking at him, still gripping, his shell having given way at some point in the last few minutes in the aftermath of what happened, the exhaustion and the overwhelming. Waylon felt something he couldn't put his finger on. It was not unlike sympathy, and nowhere near pity, but somewhere in between. It was comfortable. There had been a time when Miles' presence made him uncomfortable, but he realises - not for the first time - that these days Miles is the only person who doesn't make him feel too uncomfortable from time to time. Even Lisa brings with her imagined expectations and disappointments which are too much to bear and unable to escape. Miles was something different. His expectations were realistic.

He took a few seconds just to breathe. He felt the weight of stress on his shoulders slipping off him, felt something akin to exhaustion embracing him too, gently like Miles' four-fingered grip on his wrist. As he leaned in to press their closed mouths together, he wondered if this is what it felt like for Miles to relinquish control of his own body to some internal force.

Miles took a few seconds to respond, his eyes opening only a fraction more as he processed it. Once he had, his lips parted passively, unmoving. Willing Waylon to take the lead, as if afraid to startle a curious animal into changing its mind, he waited for Waylon to part his own lips. Within moments, the kiss was deep and mutual, and Waylon's heart raced in his chest. He was hearing cracks of thunder in his own head and seeing dim, distant flashes of light in the backs of his eyes, warning of the storm ahead.

Storms had always brought a sense of tranqulity to Waylon. In the safety of home, the sound of the rain against the glass and the wailing of the wind seemed to put a barrier between himself and everyone else. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was because he didn't think there were many people who would be out in a storm, who would bother to pass through it to get to him. Nobody would stand out in the strong wind and rain just to watch him through his windows. Kissing Miles didn't feel like standing out in the rain - it felt like being safe inside, hearing the calamity over the roof.

One of Miles' hands came up, shaking, to grasp Waylon's upper arm. His breaths were coming heavy and his eyes were squeezing shut, and Waylon could sense he was becoming overwhelmed again. He pulled back. "You okay?"

"Mmm," Miles said, and nodded. "Just..."

"Too much?"

"No," Miles said quickly. "I just... I feel everything." The hairs on the backs of Miles' arms were standing on edge and his heavy breathing was shallow. He felt like his nerves were on fire. "It's good. Don't chicken out now, Park."  _Please,_ he didn't add, and Waylon weighed him up. The last time this happened, Miles had been out of it, but it was different this time. Cognitively, Miles functioned like normal, but the corners of his eyes were pricking, body electrified. It was a lot to take in, more sensation than he knew what to do with.

With enthusiasm, the kiss resumed, and Waylon determinedly shoved down a bubble of guilt that tried to float up from his stomach. It was okay. He felt good. He missed feeling good. Miles' hand was moving up to his head and tangling into his hair and he felt _so good_. His hands were wandering to Miles' clothed chest and running down his stomach, and the hiss that it earned from the man had Waylon's own heart rate escalating. He pulled back from the kiss to look at Miles' body, to watch his own hand hesitating at the waistband of his jeans, just to make sure this was really happening. Miles whined and tangled his fingers in the smaller man's hair. " _Please_ ," he finally keened, as though he felt Waylon's resolve was slipping. It wasn't. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so self-confident, about to break past the barrier of self-doubt and get what he wanted for once. _  
_

He was unfastening Miles' jeans, then. He wanted to make him  _feel_. The power he had over the man who had once made him fear for his life was exhilarating. Briefly, as he shifted his position on the bed to straddle Miles' thighs, mind set, he thought about how his past self would have responded if he was told this was where they'd end up. The thought made him grin amusedly as he pulled Miles' jeans and underwear down over his hips.

Miles huffed. "What the fuck is so funny, Park?" His voice was weak, dazed, and it was amazing that he still had the capacity for snark. Waylon wasn't sure why he'd expected any less.

"This," he replied, looking Miles in the eye. Miles looked right back at him through the small gap in between his eyelids, and wasn't able to argue. "I'm not complaining." He looked down into Miles' lap and, for the first time, took in what he was seeing. Miles' cock was flushed and at full attention, and he heard Miles swallow as he was observed. Waylon swallowed too. His mouth was running dry out of nervousness, suddenly hyperaware that he had no idea what he was doing. But he realised, quickly, that he did. He'd been on the receiving end of attention. How much else did he really need to know? He took Miles in hand and the reaction was immediate and intense - Waylon felt thighs tense underneath him and a strained moan tore out of Miles' throat like it had been waiting days for an out.

"F-Fuck," Miles grunted through gritted teeth, curling forward. "It's..."  _Too much_ , he almost said, but there was no way in hell he was going to try to slow things down now. He felt dizzy.

"Relax. Lie back," Waylon commanded with an air of authority that tasted strange on his tongue. He was getting used to it, the process made all the more easy by the way that Miles did exactly as he was told, body relaxing forcibly and head falling back into the pillow. He took deep breaths, excitement washing over him in waves that peaked in time with his breathing. A boost in confidence had Waylon shifting back on Miles' legs and leaning forward onto his forearms, and the lack of Miles' gaze on him gave him the courage to take the head of Miles' cock into his mouth.

It wasn't that he didn't know roughly what it was it was going to taste like, and if he was honest with himself, it wasn't the taste that was most occurrent to him. It was the texture, the way it felt in his mouth, and above all, the way it made Miles start again, thighs tensing so hard this time that they shook. It was the way his fingers tangled in the sheets, and the way his head tipped to one side like the thought of looking down and seeing what was being done to him was so unthinkable, yet so tempting, that he didn't trust himself not to open his eyes. It was the deep, shuddering moan that followed, and continued to roll as Waylon swiped his tongue over the head, suddenly drunk on the things he was hearing and feeling from Miles, on what he could do to him.

It felt like the most natural thing in the world for him to take the man deeper, and the mild discomfort and stretch was negligible in the face of the sounds of bliss he was receiving, music to his ears, as he began to suck. His teeth scraped gently and in Miles' hypersensitive state it seemed to be far more painful to him than it should be, so Waylon continued tentatively, hearing Miles' moans fade in and out like the pleasure was coming to him in waves, like the tide slowly washing in, drowning him pleasantly, and then out again to give him room to breathe. At some point during his ministrations, Miles had lifted his hands to tangle in his own hair, bracing himself against the sensation desperately.

As Waylon's confidence grew, pressing deeper and firmer, he became so engrossed in the act that at first, he didn't notice when Miles went quiet. His breathing was still heavy and erratic, but his moans had silenced, and when Waylon finally caught on and pulled back, he looked up to find that Miles looked, as far as all his senses could tell, unconscious. "MIles?"

A few seconds of deep breathing later, Miles swallowed thickly and replied, without so much as opening his eyes, "Yeah...?" He sounded asleep.

"Do you want me to stop?"

Miles huffed out a weak laugh, his fingers running through his own hair distractedly, still not able to open his eyes, afraid he might pass out. When he spoke, it was a disorientated, barely discernable mumble. "I d'know," he admitted with a hint of remorse. "I don't think so. I just... feel lightheaded."

"Are you going to pass out if I keep going?"

Another regretful pause. "Think so."

Waylon smiled fondly, leaning on one elbow and taking Miles' cock in his other hand, stroking slowly and gently. It seemed to be more manageable for Miles, but he still moaned. For a few moments, the atmosphere between them was tranquil, Waylon idly watching what he was doing, observing the way precome beaded at the tip a little more each time he squeezed the head, and alternating that with watching Miles' face, and the way he breathed wetly through his open mouth, chest rising and falling heavily. Suddenly, Waylon wanted to kiss him again, but not yet, he thought. It would be so good, he thought, to kiss Miles in the afterglow, to press their lips together as he came down from his peak. Waylon was going to get him there. It was decided.

Slowly, and breathing a hot breath over Miles' cock before he began so as not to startle him, he took him in again, focusing all his attention on the head, firm and wet and with swipes of the tongue over where fluid was still leaking so profusely. His free hand went down to rub himself through his clothes, and a groan broke free from his own throat at the pleasure. He felt so unlike himself. He felt intuitive and powerful, and when Miles' breaths started to hitch violently, when he grunted the urgent, breathless mantra of, "Way, Way, Way," it reminded him of his intimacy with Lisa in all the good ways but in none of the bad - he was blind to them, feeling all of the guilt and the regret fall away, and then Miles was straining out a wild yell and coming into his mouth.

The sound of Miles' climax was like a cry of victory, and it flowed through Waylon in kind, bringing him crashing over into his own peak with a muffled groan, and then everything was silent but for the sound of their breathing. The two of them were left shaking, the tension not yet melted out of their bones as they rode the aftershocks. Waylon swallowed thickly, far from repulsed at the taste, and looked up to Miles with resolve.

He remembered his plan. He fought past the lethargy of his own afterglow and crawled up Miles' body, lying chest-to-chest with the larger man and waited until he had eye contact before kissing him. It was languid and deep, and several minutes passed before the exhaustion overcame them and Waylon rolled off to the side. For a few more minutes, they just breathed. Guilt was nudging the walls of Waylon's nerve experimentally. He ignored it. It wasn't going to break through yet. It would probably get through one day. He knew that - he knew himself. It would be on a day when his defenses were weakest, when some other assault had created a weak point. He hoped it would be a while yet; it had been so long since he'd been able to enjoy himself this much.

"You okay?" he asked tentatively. He got no response. The man had passed out, and briefly, his ego swelled.

He closed his eyes, and rested. He hadn't intended to fall asleep right there in Miles' bed, but he did anyway, to the sound of the man's breathing. For the first time in weeks, he dreamed of good things.


End file.
